


Reading between the lines and the gut punches

by Coriesocks



Series: Witcher fics [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt, Introspection, M/M, Sad!Jaskier, Second Chances, post episode 6
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23068246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coriesocks/pseuds/Coriesocks
Summary: At least, from what Jaskier had been able to glean from all his unintentional eavesdropping, it seemed Geralt was happy. Which was great. Jaskier was glad. He really did wish Geralt well… but that didn't mean he couldn’t also wish the silver-haired bastard a very itchy rash on his dick. Something irritating but not too debilitating.--Jaskier had hoped he would be over Geralt by now, at least a little bit, but it seemed his traitorous heart had other ideas.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604476
Comments: 34
Kudos: 159
Collections: The Witcher Alternate Universes





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I saw [this picture](https://forheksed.tumblr.com/post/190444530203) on tumblr and it gave me such ~feelings~ I couldn’t not write something. And then a thousand years later, I finally finished this ..*cough*.. first chapter. 
> 
> Rating might go up, depending on how ch 3 ends..
> 
> Endless thank yous to my betas and fandom wives, LGray and Quicksilvermaid. Any remaining wierdness is because i ignored their advice <3

Jaskier should have turned away as soon as he recognised the place; should have continued walking the second realisation hit, no matter the distance or the hour or the pouring rain. But he’d been curious enough—self-destructive enough, perhaps—to ignore the tightness in his shoulders and the lead weight in his stomach and gone in anyway. 

Nothing could have prepared him for the deluge of memories as he entered. It was as if no time had passed at all. There was the table he and Geralt had sat at, the bench looking just as rickety as it had done back then. The sign above the fireplace, a little faded but still promising a painful death to anyone who tried to leave without paying. Even the people looked the same, although they surely must have aged. 

A serving girl eyed him speculatively and he had the presence of mind to flash her a smile and indicate the lute on his back. She nodded toward the bar, where an older woman stood, watching him, her greying hair gathered in a complicated knot at the top of her head. She’d been here on his last visit too. Did she remember him? The landlord’s wife, if he recalled correctly, and not entirely immune to Jaskier’s charm although he’d never followed through with any of the whispered innuendo. He rarely did when Geralt was with him. 

Geralt. 

He glanced at the corner table where they’d spent that evening, high from recent successes. Geralt had been unusually loquacious that night. It had been the first time since they’d started travelling together that he’d lowered his walls enough for Jaskier to catch a glimpse of the man behind the fabled witcher. And it had been that night, in this very bar, so many years ago, that Jaskier’s tiny and only mildly inconvenient crush on his travelling companion had exploded into all-consuming desire. He could still clearly recall the moment it had happened: he’d said something completely innocuous, Geralt had shot him a wolfish grin, yellow eyes alight with amusement. and he’d felt something inside him crack. A burst of warmth in his chest accompanied by a lurch as his brain frantically tried to gather up the unwanted realisation and stuff the feelings deep, deep down where they couldn’t fuck things up. He’d known, in that moment, as a primal _want_ flared brightly within him, that Geralt would never return the true depth of his feeling. It had felt like an insignificant detail at the time, though. Geralt had considered him a friend, had trusted him enough to let his guard down, and Jaskier was sure he would have been happy to sit and bask in the warm glow of their friendship for the rest of his days.

But...

Jaskier sighed, swallowing the lump in his throat. Memories that had once held such joy for him now scraped his insides raw. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to turn around and walk out. 

Mentally shaking the image away, he approached the bar. It was still pissing it down and he still needed a place to stay the night so it wasn’t like he had a choice in the matter. “A night’s entertainment in exchange for a bed?” He plastered on his best smile, although the effect was ruined somewhat by the rain dripping down his face.

The landlady looked him over. There was a flicker of recognition there, but she didn’t acknowledge it so Jaskier let himself relax a fraction. “Keep this lot happy and free with their coin and you’ve got a deal,” she said eventually. He sagged minutely, relieved he wouldn’t have to beg. He opened his mouth to thank her but she cut him off. “Any funny business, though, and you’re out.” 

Ah. So she definitely recognised him. “You have my word,” he said with a conciliatory dip of his head. She nodded once, a sharp motion that told Jaskier he was dismissed. He made his way over to the corner to set down his bags and unpack his lute, deliberately picking the side he and Geralt hadn’t sat in last time.

———

Jaskier’s fingers danced absently over the strings, plucking a simple tune, slow and mournful, turning lyrics over in his head, as he took a short break from playing for the crowd. His eyes burned as the song led his thoughts back to _what ifs,_ back to _if onlys._ It was a well-worn path, and one he was no longer sure how to escape from. It had been harder than he thought, returning here. 

He hadn’t really noticed, all those months ago, when the ever-present thoughts of Geralt had slipped to the back of his mind—a dull ache in his chest whenever his thoughts drifted in that direction, but no longer the acute sorrow he’d experienced when the hurt was fresh. But being back here... It was like being thrust back into the past. Everywhere he looked, there were reminders of Geralt, of the night their relationship had turned from one of convenient companionship to one of true friendship.

He shoved the thoughts away, ramming them into an already overflowing trunk to be dealt with later. Or never. No time to dwell now. Not in public, anyway. He had a bed to earn. 

“Hey. Bard.” Jaskier’s hand tightened at the intrusion into his brooding and a discordant sound rang out from the lute. He winced and glanced up as the serving girl dumped a plate of food in front of him. “Ma says you need to perk up before you play again. You’re depressing the regulars, sat here with your mopey face.”

“How do they think I feel, having to look at their faces,” he muttered under his breath.

The girl snorted. 

Jaskier chose to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t want the landlady to make good on her promise to kick him out—another night spent in the pissing rain, cowering under a bush held absolutely no appeal. “You can assure your mother that I’ll be playing nothing but bar room favourites just as soon as I’ve finished with this…” He glanced down at the meal congealing on the plate, “…this delightful fare with which she has so graciously provided me.” 

“Is there maybe something else that might put a smile on your face?” the girl asked sweetly. A little too sweetly.

Jaskier’s stomach twisted. He looked up, already knowing, more or less, what he was going to find. As soon as she had his attention, the girl arched an eyebrow and smirked. He let his gaze drop to her lips, bitten red; her breasts spilling over the top of her bodice; the gentle curve of her hips, and he briefly entertained the thought of taking what was on offer… But the words lodged in his throat. He couldn’t muster up any enthusiasm for the prospect and would rather not embarrass himself with a poor performance. He sighed, resigned to having talked himself out of an easy lay, but before he could figure out a way to diplomatically reject her, a shout from another table drew her attention away. The coy smile dropped from her face and she muttered something unfavourable about men and pigs that Jaskier couldn’t make out. “Ask for Rose at the bar if you fancy trying some… local flavour,” she said, throwing him one last playful smile over her shoulder before walking away.

At one time, he would have played along, let the seduction play out to its inevitable conclusion. He’d felt very little excitement in the chase for a while now, though; had felt no proper thrill in pleasuring another body, discovering what made a person scream with pleasure. Pursuits of the flesh just left him feeling hollow, unsatisfied. And having Geralt pushed to the forefront of his mind again had, it seemed, only exacerbated those feelings. He felt unable to scrounge up even a wisp of excitement at the prospect of a quick shag with an objectively pretty, and clearly eager, bar girl, which was bloody ridiculous because he and Geralt had never even— never got close to— No. He refused to give any more time to thoughts of that man. It had been more than long enough, and there was no way Geralt still thought about him in any capacity. His lack of contact in the last year had made it abundantly clear what his stance on their friendship was. 

Jaskier made an annoyed sound in his throat, endlessly frustrated with himself. Maybe he _should_ go after Rose. Or perhaps that lad propping up the bar who’d been very unsubtle in his interest. Maybe if he bedded enough people, he’d be able to forget the emptiness. It had certainly worked before.

Gods, he hated him. 

Ugh. No, he didn’t.

He carefully set down his lute and poked at his food. A mystery pie with soggy pastry. Greyish carrots. Some… potatoes? All coated in something he was optimistically going to call gravy. He thought wistfully of the stale bread and hard cheese he’d had for lunch. Fuck, he needed to sort his life out. Change careers. Go home maybe. He was getting tired of moping around in dodgy taverns. 

He loosened a couple of ties at the neck of his doublet. The air was thick and heavy, the crowd almost too much, but at least the window beside him provided a small relief from the stink of unwashed bodies, stale beer, and questionable food. He took a sip of his ale and hummed in appreciation. It actually wasn’t too bad. Better than the piss they’d served at the last inn he played. God that had been awful. The crowd in that place had turned on him pretty quick after his fifth or sixth refusal to play any of those bloody ‘witcher’ songs. He’d been lucky to escape with all his teeth after the bar stools had started flying—a brawl unrelated to, but probably not helped by, his stubbornness. Yet another reason to change his lifestyle. Maybe he could join an acting troupe. Or find a theatre willing to give him regular work. He could settle down— 

“’Ere, you that bard? The Witcher one?”

Jaskier sighed inwardly and tried not to look too bored by the question while simultaneously cursing his success. If only he wasn’t so damn good at what he did. If only he hadn’t written so many songs about that brutish, golden-eyed cur that were now famous across The Continent. Fuck his brilliance and natural talent. 

“I’m a bard, yes. Very observant of you. I’ll be playing again in a bit if you have any requests. Fishmonger’s daughter, perhaps? That’s always a favourite.” He smiled, although it felt like more of a grimace as he tried to keep from snapping at the man to fuck off and leave him to his slop.

“Nah. I wanna hear that one about the time White Wolf defeated the hags on the hill. Or that dragon one, you know? That one.”

“The white what? Sorry. Don’t know any songs like that. Perhaps you’d prefer something saucy? I know a delightfully titillating ditty about a lovely fair maiden and her decidedly filthy mouth. Does that not tickle your fancy?” 

“What ploughin’ bard worth ‘is salt don’t know any songs about the White Wolf?”

Jaskier gritted his teeth and shrugged. “Maybe you’ll have better luck with the next one, then.” Why were people so hung up on hearing about Geralt and his fucking adventures? Why were those songs the only thing people wanted to hear from him? He just wanted to completely forget the bastard, move on with his life the way Geralt had moved on with his. Was that too much to ask for?

The man grumbled something scathing and spat at Jaskier’s feet before stalking back to his table. Lovely. He pushed his plate away, appetite vanished. He might as well play his next set, get the night over with. He’d lose out on a room for the night if he left now. Unless… there was always Rose, he supposed, prodding at the idea anew to see if he could muster any enthusiasm at all, but... No.

Jaskier sighed and pushed up from the table, traipsing back into position. He just needed to focus on getting through the night; the sooner it was over, the sooner he could move on to the next place. Maybe one day he’d be able to outrun his feelings. Maybe one day he wouldn’t keep one eye on the horizon, always seeking a flash of white hair. 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Cleared his mind. He played songs he knew inside out, songs he could play without engaging his brain. Traditional songs, bar room songs, songs about places he’d travelled through, people he’d met. Crowd favourites. New pieces. He pretended not to notice the restlessness of the crowd; the faces growing angry, impatient; the landlady shooting worried glances at her bar, probably weighing up the likelihood of her patrons buggering off home and taking their coin with them.

He ignored the jeers, the calls for songs about _him;_ songs Jaskier had sworn he’d never play again. He ignored the shouts for new tales. The White Wolf had rescued an entire village from an infestation of Devourers, wasn’t that brave? Why don’t you sing about that? What about the time the White Wolf had killed a giant and broken the curse on a young farmer’s family? Didn’t the bard have any songs about that? What sort of useless bard didn’t keep his repertoire up to date?

Of course he’d heard about those things, or similar. Who bloody hadn’t? It seemed no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t _help_ hearing snippets of conversations in market places, or taverns, or when he was just minding his own business on a stroll through a town. As far as he could tell, every bloody person on the Continent seemed to have their own tale about how the witcher had saved them, their auntie, their fucking third cousin twice removed, from certain death, and they all choose to chatter about it when he walked by. Without fail. And he’d be frozen in place, unable to do anything but overhear every sordid detail.

At least, from what Jaskier had been able to glean from all his unintentional eavesdropping, it seemed Geralt was happy. Which was great. Jaskier was glad. He really did wish Geralt well… but that didn't mean he couldn’t also wish the silver-haired bastard a very itchy rash on his dick. Something irritating but not too debilitating.

“We want the one about the golden dragon!” someone shouted from the back of the room, as Jaskier paused between songs. “Yeah, the witcher and the dragon!” another cut in, and Jaskier quietly seethed as the cry was quickly taken up by others, still all obviously hung up on hearing songs about sodding Geralt and his masterful handling of his weapon despite Jaskier’s best attempts to distract and ignore them. He fervently wished he’d never met the bastard. The man would not leave him alone. He was going to be plagued by that name for the rest of his fucking life and _it wasn’t fair._

“Fine, fine. You know what? I’ll give you a song about your bloody witcher. Your butcher. Your… garroter.” The audience buzzed with approval (or was it reproach? It was honestly getting hard to tell the difference). 

Jaskier started playing a new song, one he’d not played to anyone before, his fingers picking out the simple melody, a melancholic wandering through minor chords. It was a song about the pain of unrequited love, about being used, about how it felt to continue living after his heart was wrenched from his chest. It was a song about loss and loneliness. A song about abandonment; about missing part of himself. It was a song about Geralt.

He closed his eyes, let the painful lament flow through him, lyrics he’d agonised over, lyrics he couldn’t remember writing spilling out of his mouth. It was cathartic, letting his sadness out in this way. The noise of the tavern fell away. Nothing mattered except the words and the melody. He let the song wring out his sorrow, let it fill the gaps left by Geralt’s absence. 

When the song drew to a close, he let the last notes ring out, crisp and clear. With his eyes shut, Jaskier could almost imagine the audience were sat in rapturous silence, awed by his talent, but he didn’t believe it for a second. He breathed deeply to centre himself, and someone coughed—that awkward, embarrassed cough that people only did when they wanted to be anywhere but where they currently were—had he been that awful? Had his song really reduced people to pitying silence and awkward coughing? He opened his eyes slowly, terribly afraid of what he was about to find. He wasn’t used to inspiring silence—amusement, jealousy, irritation, sure, but never hollow silence. He’d hoped for applause, adulation, _coin._ He’d realistically expected bored indifference. He never, in a hundred years, could have predicted the image that met his gaze. 

Broad shoulders, silver hair, and eyes like an autumn sunset. The only pair of eyes in the place currently on him. Jaskier’s stomach plummeted. 

Geralt. 

Standing in the door of the bar splattered with gore, just like old times.

_Geralt._


	2. Chapter 2

In the end, it was the throb of his fingers, curled in a bone-crushing grip around the neck of his lute, that shook Jaskier out of his temporary paralysis. He wrested his eyes from Geralt’s, which were piercing even in the gloom of the inn, and loosened the death hold on his poor instrument. With his gaze now studiously pinned to the floor, Jaskier turned his back on the audience (and, by extension, Geralt) and walked back to his table to pack up his things. The landlady would probably be pissed off, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. He wouldn’t be able to play now even if he wanted to continue, not with the tremor running through his hands. 

He took his time, carefully wiping down his lute, stowing his money pouch, and securing the buckles and straps of his bag, giving himself space to compose himself before approaching Geralt. He toyed with the idea of not approaching at all—Geralt didn’t deserve his time or attention after the things he’d said—but he’d never been very good at ignoring the man. He snuck a look over his shoulder, half-expecting—half-hoping—that he’d imagined the whole thing; that it had been an illusion brought on by a combination of dodgy ale and painful memories. Maybe it had been a different silver-haired, black-clad, blood-splattered man. But no, there he was, standing in the middle of the inn as if there wasn’t a roomful of people gawping at him. Jaskier turned back around and cut a glance to the window by his table, weighing up the likelihood of being able to outrun Geralt if he pitched himself out of the window and legged it.

When he could no longer justify rummaging through his possessions to delay confronting that which he didn’t want to confront, Jaskier hefted his bags over his shoulder and scanned the room. He instantly spotted Geralt sitting at the bar, nursing a beer, a bubble of emptiness around him despite how crowded the inn was. He wasn’t looking in his direction, but Jaskier could tell Geralt knew exactly where he was; knew that Geralt would no doubt be up like a shot, barring Jaskier’s exit if he tried to sneak past to his room or make a dash for the door. As much as he wanted to flee though, Jaskier was also desperately curious. He wanted to know why Geralt had shown up. Why here? Why now? It couldn’t be a coincidence. 

It had been over a year since their parting, at least six months of which, Jaskier had spent in Novigrad waiting for Geralt to turn up and apologise for being a truly shit friend. Six months of lacklustre performances in the same few bars; six months of expecting Geralt to be the next face he saw; of looking up expectantly every time someone rode into town on a bay mare; of holding his breath every time he caught a glimpse of someone vaguely Geralt-shaped through the crowd. It wasn’t that he’d expected he and Geralt to be inseparable; they’d been apart before, and for longer periods, but their parting at other times had always been amicable—met with a ‘see you around’, a pat on the back, maybe a hug, as their paths diverged. It’d been different this time, though. Geralt’s words had been aimed to hurt, cutting Jaskier as deeply as if he had used his sword. It had felt like his heart had been cleaved in two and the bloody remains ripped from his chest, but Jaskier had still clung for all those months to the belief that Geralt didn’t really mean what he’d said, that he’d only lashed out because he was angry with himself. So he’d waited, and waited, and waited, filling the time between performances with gambling and warm bodies and too much ale, until one day he caught himself plotting to invent a monster problem to draw Geralt back to him. That was the moment he’d realised he needed to stop wallowing; the moment he’d forced himself to accept that Geralt had meant every word, that he wouldn’t coming back on bended knee to beg forgiveness. So, Jaskier had resolutely packed that part of his life away, buried it deep beneath all the other things he was determined to never think of, and moved on. Or tried to. 

Jaskier stumbled through the busy inn, legs stubbornly resisting all attempts at grace. As he emerged into the void around Geralt, the rumble of drunken conversation and bawdy shouting fell away, his entire focus centred on the familiar form hunched over the bar. He slipped onto the stool beside Geralt, only teetering a little as the witcher’s scent triggered a slew of memories to surge into the foreground. Metal and worn leather. Rich and earthy. The sharp tang of blood. The heavy musk of a man who’d been on the road too long. It was heady and deeply masculine and it made Jaskier’s heart pound. Nervous energy thrummed through him, making his skin tingle, and his clothes suddenly felt two sizes too small. 

His bags hit the floor with a thud, the muted clang of his lute as it met a similar fate, jolting him from his spiralling thoughts. 

Geralt barely acknowledged his arrival, continuing his study of his half-empty tankard. Jaskier folded his hands in his lap to keep from fiddling, but then felt too formal, so he clasped them together on the bar, only to see the very noticeable tremor still running through them. He shoved them into his lap again. 

No matter how suffocating it felt, how fidgety the weighty silence made him, Jaskier refused to be the one to speak first; refused to make this easy for Geralt. He could feel the other man’s intense scrutiny though. Could feel those golden eyes studying him even as he kept his own gaze trained on the row of half-empty bottles behind the bar. But then there was movement beside him, a creak of leather, and Geralt slid a mug of ale in front of him, the dark amber liquid sloshing up the sides but not spilling. Jaskier stared at it for a few minutes, watching the patchy foam swirl lazily on the surface. Geralt remained silent, so Jaskier mentally shrugged and took a sip of the drink, somehow managing to dribble half the mouthful down his chin. Hardly the impression he’d been aiming for, he thought, hurriedly swiping at his mouth with his sleeve. Fucking hell.

Still Geralt said nothing.

Jaskier stared at his ale a short while longer; took another gulp, managing to keep it in his mouth this time. It really wasn’t a bad drop, he thought distractedly. He could imagine whiling away a very pleasant evening with it if circumstances were different. Another large gulp, just to give himself something to do. It was unnatural for him to hold his tongue for so long, and he kept opening his mouth abortively, snapping it shut when he remembered he was pissed off. He refused to be the one to talk first. _He_ had nothing to apologise for. Geralt had pushed _him_ away, blamed him, had wanted him ‘taken off his hands’, and then abandoned him in the arse end of nowhere. He could maintain this uncomfortable silence forever if needs be.

He shot Geralt another glance out of the corner of his eye. Why wasn’t he talking? Did he come here just to brood at the bar? …actually, he probably _had_ come to do just that. Nothing he liked better than a spot of brooding. Probably rated somewhere in the top three of Geralt’s favourite activities. Gods, he hated this silence. He wasn’t going to crack first. He could brood in silence just as well as Geralt. He could be as tight-lipped as a monk. He— Oh, fuck it.

“So… How’s Yenn?” He winced the second the name fell from his lips. What in the name of all that was holy was he doing? He didn’t give two shits about that insane witch. Why was he bringing her up now? To Geralt of all people? 

Geralt was no longer hunched over his ale. He turned slightly on the stool and tilted his head. “What?”

“You know, her of the weird eyes, black hair. Mad as a box of frogs. Your lady love. Your paramour. Remember her?” It seemed now he’d opened his mouth, he couldn’t shut himself up.

Geralt frowned, shook his head. “She’s not my… my anything.”

“Sorry, sorry. My mistake. I meant, the woman you regularly fuck and for whom you drop everything the second she bats her oh so pretty eyes. How foolish of me to imagine there was some kind of relationship there.” Bollocks. He hid his face in his tankard, taking another long drag to hide the grimace. He sounded so petty and jealous. Geralt was going to think him a whining shrew; he didn’t want to sound petty. He was fine. He had moved on.

Geralt’s lips twitched, and damn everything if that flicker of amusement didn’t make something inside Jaskier flutter and hum with approval. “Hmm. I didn’t think you cared.”

Why’d he have to look so smug? “I don’t,” Jaskier snipped. “Could not care less, to be honest. Just… I don’t know. Making conversation.” He took another large swig of ale to busy his mouth and prevent any more shit spilling out. His cup was already almost empty. 

Silence descended over them once again, just as thick. Jaskier listened to the sounds of the bar, the low rumble of voices punctuated by shouts from the group playing gwent in the corner. He caught Rose’s eye as she puttered about behind the bar and she smirked at him, her gaze amused and speculative as she flicked her eyes between him and Geralt. Jaskier scowled and shuffled a little further away. He didn’t want her getting the wrong idea. 

“Was that a new song?”

“What?” Jaskier startled and whipped his head around to find Geralt staring at him, yellow eyes now a deep amber in the inn’s candlelit interior.

“The song you were playing when I walked in. I’ve not heard it before.”

Fuck. Geralt wanted to talk about Jaskier’s songs? And what did he care anyway? He’d never expressed anything other than irritation with Jaskier’s singing before. And now he’d turned up out of the blue, after making no effort to apologise or even contact Jaskier in all this time, and Jaskier was supposed to believe he suddenly cared about his performance? “It’s been over a year, Geralt. A fucking _year_. Did you really think I’d write nothing in all this time? Did you expect me to sit at home, crying into my petticoats? Is that what you were hoping?”

“No, that’s not what I meant, I—”

“Because I’ve been fucking great. You blaming me for all of your many failings and ditching me was the best bloody thing that ever happened because it meant I haven’t had to go traipsing across the Continent, getting dragged from monster nest to wraith possession to fuck knows what else. I’ve been able to do what I bloody want, when I bloody want to do it, and that includes writing songs. I’m a bard, you hag-faced twat.” He slammed his tankard onto the bar, punctuating ‘twat’ with a dull metallic clang. The remnants of his ale sloshed over his fingers and he was suddenly aware of the quiet that had sprung up around them as everyone nearby made no attempt to hide their interest in eavesdropping. The landlady glared at them, wiping a tankard with a rag. 

“Ah, I think perhaps I need something a little stronger,” Jaskier said with an embarrassed laugh. “And maybe a cloth,” he added, shaking the beer from his fingers.

“Vodka. Bottle of. Something decent,” Geralt said, adding a reluctant, “Please,” at the landlady’s raised eyebrow.

The landlady glanced between the pair of them and Jaskier could tell she was working out whether the coin was worth the hassle of an inebriated witcher. 

“I’m glad you’re doing well,” Geralt said softly, after the landlady thudded a dusty bottle of bimber and two smudged tumblers in front of him.

Jaskier grabbed the bottle before Geralt could get it and poured himself a generous measure. A little splashed over the sides in his haste and he shot an apologetic glance at the landlady. He wouldn’t be surprised if she gave him a bib at this rate.

“I didn’t think you cared,” he muttered, repeating Geralt’s earlier words back at him. Gods, it was hard being around him. He stared at the clear liquid in the cup, grimacing at the unidentifiable bits floating in it, and then lifted the drink to his nose. He sniffed and immediately regretted it as the aroma hit the back of his throat and made his eyes water. He could feel Geralt’s eyes on him again so he took a burning gulp and choked it down, taking in a few deep breaths until he was certain it wasn’t going to come straight back out. “Fucking bollocks, I’ll be feeling this for days,” he gasped. “Bloody hell. Have you tried it yet?” He turned to Geralt, an easy grin on his face that froze as he remembered his current situation. 

The corner of Geralt’s mouth twitched up but then something hard and unreadable flickered across his face before it softened fractionally. “I’ve missed you,” he murmured, holding Jaskier’s gaze a touch longer than necessary.

Jaskier’s brain stuttered and all he could do was flap his mouth nonsensically while he tried to rationalise the words. As soon as Geralt looked away, Jaskier slumped, his breath leaving in a rush. Fuck. That was unexpected. He felt his face heat. The alcohol. It had to be the alcohol. And who knew how much Geralt had drunk before coming into the bar—he could be off his face for Jaskier knew. Why else would he be saying things like that? And what about an apology? If he’d really missed Jaskier, he’d had plenty of opportunities to seek him out. 

At the risk of slipping into drunkenness, Jaskier took another sip of the bimber to give himself time to formulate a response. Nothing came to mind, though. What was he supposed to say? ‘I missed you too. Let’s forget this whole mess ever happened.’ Well he supposed he _could_ say that, but he didn’t _want_ to. He sighed, rubbing at his eyes. He’d been doing fine. Why did Geralt have to make everything so complicated? 

“What are you doing here, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, once his heart had settled into a steady rhythm.

“Fisherman needed some help with a Drowner problem. Next village over.”

“Drowners?” Jaskier snorted despite himself. “Bit below your pay grade, aren’t they?” 

Geralt shrugged, the action little more than the minute lift and fall of one shoulder. “Job’s a job. Needed doing. And I was passing through anyway.”

“Passing through? To get to where? We’re in the arse end of Velen. There’s nothing for… fuck knows how far.” 

“Everywhere is on the way to somewhere else.”

Jaskier stared at Geralt for a good long minute, his mouth ajar, and then he burst out laughing. “What a crock of shit, witcher. Gods, you’ve gone peculiar in your advanced age.”

“Fine,” Geralt growled. “I heard you were in the area.”

“And? You were very clear last we spoke that you wanted nothing more to do with me.”

“I was angry. I didn’t mean what I said. You should have known that.”

“Oh! So it’s my fault. Apologies, Geralt, for being unable to read your mind. Thanks so much for setting the record straight.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Of course you didn’t. You never say what you mean, as I’m just now discovering. Is there anything else I’m supposed to have absorbed from you with my mind-reading powers?”

“Jaskier—” Geralt warned, but Jaskier was on a roll.

“—Any other big reveals? Wait a minute. Is your name even Geralt? Are you cross with me for not divining your true name from the entrails of the last beast you slayed?”

“Bard!”

Jaskier rolled his eyes but he held his tongue; took a few deep breaths, gulped down another mouthful of bimber. Bloody fuck that shit burned. He was going end up with a hole right through his gut if he kept drinking this stuff. “How has it taken you a year to decide to find me? Why now? What happened?”

“I’ve been busy.” Geralt paused, staring at his hands as he tapped a finger on the bar once, twice, three times, before sighing and glancing back at Jaskier. “And I didn’t think you would want to see me.”

Jaskier let out a soft exhale. Shook his head. A breathy laugh. Fucking Geralt. “When have you ever cared what I wanted? You blunder through life, hunting monsters, fucking sorceresses, trying to outrun destiny or what have you. I was an idiot to think we were ever truly friends, I realise that now. I forced my presence on you, and maybe, _maybe_ it filled an abstract need of yours for a time, but it was never meant to last. You made that abundantly clear on more than one occasion.”

“I appreciated having you around.” Jaskier snorted and Geralt glared at him, but evidently agreed with the sentiment. “Not all the time, fine. But…” He huffed and squared his jaw. “…You made the long journeys less tiresome. And—” Another sigh. It was as if the words were physically painful for him. “—I wouldn’t mind your companionship again.”

Jaskier’s hand paused midway to bringing his drink to his mouth. Geralt actually wanted him around? His heart was screaming at him to accept; to jump up and wrap his arms around those broad shoulders and say yes to everything. But then, staring deep into those knowing, golden eyes he remembered how it had ended— remembered the months of pain, the uncertainty, the endless hoping… And before that, before the ignominious end to their association, he remembered what it was like, watching the man he… well, love was a very strong word… but… what it was like watching the man he’d _grown to care about quite a lot_ throw himself into danger, or sleep with other people, and not age a fucking day. And that was the crux of it, really. Even if things were to turn out in Jaskier’s favour, if it happened that Geralt returned his feelings, he’d still have to watch his own body deteriorate while Geralt remained the same. 

His stomach gave a sickening lurch as it twisted into a knot that was likely only partly caused by the moonshine and he screwed his eyes shut. How could he voluntarily put himself through any of that again? He couldn’t do it. He’d be a fool to try. Which lead him to an awful conclusion. One he was almost too scared to entertain. 

But he had to be honest with himself. 

He met Geralt’s eye and offered him a small, wistful smile. His eyes burned, but he didn’t look away. “I… I’m sorry. I can’t.” He exhaled and shook his head. Honesty. “Actually, no. That’s… that’s a lie. The truth is, I don’t want to.”

Geralt’s expression flicked from hopeful to surprised to confused in quick succession. “What?” 

Jaskier exhaled sharply through his nose. A mirthless snort. He drained his glass to distract himself from the sudden irritation that had surged through him. Geralt had honestly expected him to just, what, roll over and slot neatly back into his life? To trot after him while he gallivanted from coast to coast, sleeping in hedgerows and bug-infested taverns? He could feel Geralt’s eyes on him, so he pushed aside his annoyance, but any sharp quip he’d had ready on his lips faltered as he took in the look on Geralt’s face. He looked…disappointed. Hurt, even.

The bimber churned uncomfortably in his stomach, threatening to dislodge the stodgy meal he’d half-eaten earlier. Jaskier opened his mouth, ready to spin a lie to soften what he’d said, because despite his annoyance, despite the wash of conflicting feelings tumbling around inside him, he didn’t want to be the reason for that look on Geralt’s face, but he caught the words before they could leave. Geralt deserved the truth. Maybe if he’d been truthful from the start, he wouldn’t be in this position now.

“I’m sorry, Geralt. Really, I am.” He reached out tentatively and placed a hand on Geralt’s arm, briefly marvelling at the strength he could feel beneath his fingers. He could still change his mind, he thought, smoothing a thumb along corded muscle when Geralt didn’t so much as flinch from his touch. He could blame his indecision on the gut-scraping booze, the shock of the situation. He could… He would do well to remember the _pain,_ he scolded himself. This was for the best for both of them. He drew his hand back and tucked it against his chest. “You know, it’s funny. Whenever I’ve thought about this moment before—and believe me, I’ve thought about it a lot—it’s always ended with me forgiving you, you forgiving me, and the pair of us waltzing off into the sunset, on to our next big adventure.”

“Why can’t it be like that? Without the waltzing, obviously. We could travel together again. I—” Geralt cut himself off with an irritated growl, glaring at the bar like the ancient wood had personally offended him. “I want us to travel together,” he said, his voice low and strained.

“And then what? You keep me around until you tire of my company again, or decide to blame me for all your bad decisions?” Geralt opened his mouth but Jaskier silenced him with a glare. “Look, as much as I’d love to I… I can’t.” He tilted his head to the ceiling and took in a deep breath wondering how best to phrase what he needed to say. _Honesty._ “Geralt, I’m still not sure how it happened, but at some point, you became one of my closest friends. If not _the_ closest. But more than that; even with your boorish ways, your ability to get innards literally everywhere, your bloody-minded and plain _wrong_ insistence that my songs are sub-par— Even with all that, somewhere along the line I went and bloody well fell maddeningly in…in lo—” _Fuck._ He mentally slapped himself for letting his mouth run off without engaging his brain. Geralt already looked like he’d choked on something unpleasant, there was no need to finish the man off. “—lust with you and quite frankly, you’ve… you’ve ruined me for all future romantic endeavours because how can anyone ever compare?”

“Jaskier…”

Jaskier huffed and shook his head, choosing to ignore Geralt’s warning tone. The bastard had shown up here with no warning, expecting everything to be the same, so he could bloody well listen while Jaskier vomited emotions at him. “The funny—or rather, pitiful—thing is, I never quite realised how much you meant to me until after you had removed yourself from my life. Your words destroyed me, and my life has been empty without you but… it wouldn’t be fair for either of us if we travelled together again. Not for me, having to watch you chase after Yenn or any other pretty young thing who waggles her…assets at you, and not for you, having me seethe quietly with jealousy, hating you for something you can’t give me—”

“ _Jaskier—”_

“No, let me finish; I need you to understand. I can’t travel with you not because I don’t care but because I can’t just be your friend, not anymore. And much as I hate to admit it, you were right, when you told me to go. I don't want to spend my life worrying about you getting killed, feeling jealous every time you sleep with... with anyone. And anyway, what hope do we have? I'm human. I'm going to wither and die and you'll look like this. I can’t live with that hanging over my head. It wouldn’t be fair on either of us.”

Geralt stared at him for what felt like an age, several conflicting emotions playing across his face, although Jaskier doubted his turmoil was obvious to anyone else but him. Jaskier held his breath. He didn’t know if he wanted Geralt to fight for his company or not. He’d probably fold completely if Geralt pressed the matter—he’d always had trouble saying no to him, and he was seconds away from throwing himself into Geralt’s arms and demanding he forget everything he just said…But then he saw the twitch in Geralt’s jaw, and his heart sunk, the tiny flicker of hope snuffed out in an instant because he knew that look; knew Geralt had come to a decision.

“Okay, fine. I’ll respect your wishes. But for what it’s worth, I’m truly sorry for what I said. You were a good friend to me and you deserve someone capable of treating you well.”

Geralt downed his drink and stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Goodbye, bard,” he said gruffly. He turned and walked out of the bar without another word.

The world crumbled as Jaskier watched him go, staring at his back as he disappeared into the night. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but he was dimly aware of the landlady pressing a drink into his hand. He accepted with a nod and an absent smile. His eyes burned, the bustle of the bar was too loud. He felt like he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, had to keep reassuring himself he’d done the right thing, but how could it be right when it felt like his chest had been hollowed out. He sat alone for the rest of the night, one hand curled around his drink, the other gripped tightly to the edge of his stool, tethering himself so he wouldn’t run into the night after Geralt. It hurt now, but it would get better. It _had_ to get better.

———

When he left the inn the next day there was no sign of Geralt and Jaskier couldn’t help the wave of disappointment that washed over him. It was stupid— childishly hopeful, even—but he’d half-expected Geralt to be waiting for him. He’d not gotten a wink of sleep, what with being busy reliving the entire encounter over and over, but as he’d lain there torturing himself, he’d realised that he really _had_ hoped that Geralt would have put up more of a fight. He wanted to feel needed, he craved the feeling of being completely desired by another person, and a tiny hopeful part of him had thought that person might possibly be Geralt. Clearly, that hope had been misguided, though. He wondered how long it would be before they bumped into each other again. Would Geralt seek him out at all? Would they cross paths again in five, ten, fifteen years? With any luck, he’d have died of old age before Geralt decided to show his face again. It was the least he could hope for. Now all he had to do was keep moving forward.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/coriesocks) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/coriesocks) @coriesocks <3


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